Get By
by Mucada
Summary: slightly AU. Hermione hands in her essay, and tells Remus that she knows his secret. set in Third Year.


Title: Get By  
Author: Mucada  
Rating: PG (I'm still having adjustment issues with the new rating system. ;))  
Disclaimer: So not mine.  
**A/N:** I must just be a slightly haunting person.  
I have this idea in my mind, to continue this. Well, I actually shouldn't say 'continue this.' I'm thinking of writing another story with this one in mind. I always pictured Remus and Hermione being somewhat of kindred spirits, really, and I have these story ideas floating in my brain.  
**Summary:** slightly AU. Third Year. Hermione hands in her essay, telling Remus she knows of his secret.

888

_I know you're wise beyond your years,  
but do you ever get the fear  
that your perfect verse is just a lie  
you tell yourself to help you get by?  
that you tell yourself to help you get by  
_-The Postal Service

888

There was a timid knock on his door, automatically telling Remus that his late visitor was a student. So not to sound intimidating, he called out kindly, "Come in." Quickly after, he heard the loose doorknob turn, and the old wooden door open slightly, to let in an uncomfortable looking Hermione Granger. She stood by the door for a moment, and then shut it silently. Indeed, he had never seen her look so frazzled before. Minerva McGonagall had mentioned to him once that she was using a Time Turner to take more than the required amount of classes, but Hermione was a very bright student he thought she would still work fine under pressure since her grades never dropped. Apparently, the stress was finally hitting her. She looked disheveled, a heavy bag pulling her down on one side, and her uniform was rumpled as if she had slept in it.

He offered her a smile saying, "Good evening, Miss Granger, may I help you?"

"I have the essay you assigned, Professor." She sounded rushed.

"What essay?" he asked, but then remembered. "I had mentioned in class today that I wasn't going to collect that," he said slowly, brow furrowed.

"I know, sir," she dropped her burdened school bag next to the side of his desk and bent down to look through it, and continued "it's just that I had already written it, and was wondering if you could perhaps take a look at it..."

Although she sounded strained, there was strength in her voice. He recognized it instantly: she was trying to prove herself to him. He promised himself right then that he would read the essay, grade it, and return it to her as if it was a regular assignment.

She straightened up, her hair bouncing, and handed the parchment to him. Impeccable handwriting, lines perfectly straight. Despite her appearance, she handed it to him with esteem. He reached out and took it, eyes never leaving hers. She didn't back down from his gaze, but her vigor flickered slightly. They stared at each other momentarily, as if nothing else went by around them.

Sudden terror struck Remus. He knew what was written on the parchment: details proving something he had tried to keep hidden this entire year. That bastard Snape assigned this essay, with the idea that the truth would click in some student's mind. And of course Hermione would be that student. He knew her research would be flawless, and no doubt would be in her mind.

"Professor?" She was looking intently at him, reading him.

"You know."

She looked down at the floor, her eyes darting back and forth. "Yes," she replied softly.

He could feel himself crashing from the inside. He stood up from his desk and walked to the window. He startled her with his sudden movement, but he didn't turn around. He stood looking at the glass, reflecting himself, not saying anything. A part of him was hoping she would just leave. How many times had he found himself in this situation? It had started to play out as a dream almost, the last few times. He felt sick of it, how society made him live his life. At other times it just made him feel dirty.

"What do you want me to say, Hermione?" He knew his voice sounded impatient, frustrated, but he didn't care.

He heard her sigh softly from where she stood near his desk. When he turned around he watched her sink into one of the desks in the front row. Her action was that of a tired adult, not a third year student. His body began to slow down, letting out anxious emotions that he had been holding.

"I won't tell anyone, any of the students that is." Clever, she probably figured the faculty already knew.

"Thank you," was all he could say at the moment. When he looked into her eyes finally, there wasn't fear, only shock and exhaustion. How could he let this young girl leave bearing this terrible secret?

"I have no animosity for you, sir," she said, breaking their eye contact and looking at the top of the desk. He didn't reply, and she continued to talk, slowly and cautiously, "How long has it been?"

"Over thirty years," he replied, without thinking. A question so commonly asked by those few who knew, he was so used to responding. He let his eyes shift around the room, looking at everything but her. The window was cold against his back as he leaned against it.

She didn't respond, obviously finding the situation as uncomfortable as he felt it. He could only imagine the thoughts in her head right now, and he hoped that she kept true to her word, swearing not to tell the student body. He thought, any other student would run their mouth dry about this, but not her. She was different, wise beyond her years. She reminded him of himself as a boy, in some ways.

"I have to go to the library," she said, walking over to her bag, heaving it up onto her shoulder. Her face showed clear discomfort, but she tried feigning it as indifference.

"Thank you for the essay," he replied lamely, letting her leave.

"Good night, Professor," she said as she left his classroom, shutting the door behind her.

He stood there for a moment, his back still against the dark window. From years of experience of how people thought of his lycanthropy, he could imagine her thoughts, her being a brilliant and open-minded witch. He was also aware that she was muggle-born and not conditioned by the magical world to fear him. She would probably keep her distance, as a student, and they wouldn't discuss the matter anymore. Someone might notice that they walked delicately around each other, if the moment arose. He could picture Minerva McGonagall interrogating him in the staffroom about it, fearful of what problems he might have with a young student. He would admit that Hermione knew of his secret, and he and Minerva would convince themselves that she wouldn't tell anyone. He smiled humourlessly, imagining the scenario.

He left his office to return to the faculty lounge, locking the door behind him. He envisioned Hermione sitting in the library until late that night, trying to finish a ridiculous amount of schoolwork in one sitting. He was going to talk to Minerva about this, seeing if she could convince her student to drop a few classes.

The staffroom was vacant when he arrived, and he didn't even bother lighting the dark room as he made his way up the stairs to his rooms.

888

Please review and tell me what you think. :)


End file.
